


How an Angel Learnt to Relax and Rediscover Christmas

by Jupiter_Ash



Series: The Tales of Eden Cottage [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:55:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiter_Ash/pseuds/Jupiter_Ash
Summary: Aziraphale has a complicated relationship with various religious holidays. Christmas was no exception.(Part 1 guest starring other religious and non-religious holidays)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Tales of Eden Cottage [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1434391
Comments: 58
Kudos: 249
Collections: Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs





	1. Aziraphale (September to early November)

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to Kizzia for the beta!
> 
> Author’s note: While part one is from Aziraphale’s POV, later parts will include other people’s POVs.
> 
> Note about UK festivals for non-UK readers: Christmas is by far our biggest festival. We have three national holidays at Christmas; two for Christmas - Christmas Day, and the day after, which is called Boxing Day (don’t ask) – and one for New Years Day.
> 
> Halloween isn’t nearly as big here as it is in the US, although it is getting more popular. Houses open to trick or treaters show this by having a carved pumpkin outside it. Otherwise you get left alone. Growing up in a religious household, I have never done Halloween. The Church of England and other churches don’t particularly like it. 
> 
> The 5th November is a unique UK festival, officially known as Guy Fawkes Night, sometimes referred to as Fireworks Night. In short, on 5th November 1605, a group of Catholics tried to blow up the House of Lords and kill the Protestant King James I during the State Opening of Parliament. They failed. Guy Fawkes, who had been in charge of the gunpowder, was caught guarding the stockpile and was subsequently tortured and executed. Ever since then the UK has celebrated Parliament not being blown up by setting off fireworks, lighting bonfires, and make stuffed scarecrow-like figures – called Guys – to be thrown on the bonfire. All good fun. Official firework displays tend to happen on the weekend closest to the 5th.

Aziraphale had a complicated relationship with Christmas. 

Yes, it was festival based on joy, thanksgiving and sacrificial love, but it was also complicated, fraught and ever more chaotic. 

In contrast, Crowley loved Christmas. In his view, modern Christmas was high on his list of ultimate successes, along with Manchester, the M25, and the theory of evolution*.

_*His commendation for his work on the theory of evolution was, for once, fully deserved. While the theory itself wasn’t his original idea (even his imagination didn’t stretch that far) he had been instrumental in helping the idea spread. Even so, he’d not thought for one minute it would catch on quite the way it did._

Christmas, and everything attached to it, was an ever-expanding pool which, under bright flickering lights, swirled greed, jealousy, gluttony, and anger, to a soundtrack of catchy but irritating tunes.

Technically, as a demon, he wasn’t supposed to like it as much as he did, what with it being about the birth of the Son of the Almighty, the Saviour of the World, the Messiah, and all that, but since most people ignored that part of the celebrations these days he figured he was fine.

And _Fairytale of New York_ was bloody brilliant, thank you very much!

Of course, modern day Christmas bore very little resemblance to the first Christmas which had actually been March 21st on current calendars, or an otherwise quiet Tuesday.

Aziraphale hadn’t really been involved in the first Christmas. Gabriel had been handed that remit, and he had his own team in Head Office for it. Since, even back then, Aziraphale was rarely included in anything to do with Head Office* he had been grateful to have been given a heads up about this one, so he could at least be in the area when it all went down**.

_*Much to his general relief._

_**Although, with all the movement between Heaven and Earth at that time, even he had already determined that something was happening. He’d been rather fortunate to get a room though. His presence had also gone unremarked upon as he had been able to blend in with all the economic migrants who had been forced back to their birth place for yet another pesky Roman census. He had a shrewd suspicion that a certain snake-eyed demon had been the one who persuaded Caesar that counting all the people for tax purposes again was a jolly good idea._

The choruses by the various celestial choirs had been quite lovely though*, although admittedly the shepherds they had been singing in the vicinity of were perhaps a little too petrified to fully appreciate it.

_*He had spent a relatively** short time in one of the choirs of hosts before he received his assignment as the Principality of the Eastern Gate but that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate their harmonious singing, in limited doses. And anyway, the song selection had been infinitely greater back when he had been a much newer angel. Somehow the selection had been whittled down considerably over the past few millennia to what he now considered to be barely more than a Greatest Hits Compilation, which did become a little tedious after a century or two._

_**“relative” since time itself had only been invited for part of it._

Reminisces aside, the point was that Aziraphale had never really been sure what to make of the season that was Christmas. He appreciated the whole _remind people about Jesus_ thing, even if it wasn’t the actual date Jesus had been born on. He encouraged the whole _love and think of others_ thing, those were concepts he could fully get behind since they helped bring the best out of people. And he certainly didn’t dislike the whole celebrating with good food and drink, provided there was enough for everyone and it wasn’t about to cause people to end up starving before the winter was out*.

_*He was a sensualist, not a glutton. He barely ate at all during times of famine or crisis. Just enough to keep up appearances and keep his corporation running. The fourteenth century had been particularly long in that respects. War, Famine and Pestilence had been unusually busy during that time, while the less said about Death the better._

He had certainly been a little peeved when the Puritans had cancelled Christmas.

But modern Christmas was almost a completely different beast from what it had once been. Loud, bright, dramatic, everything now felt amplified. Not just the joy and the love, but the greed, the waste and the annoyance. People being forced to spend time with family members who were rude or racist or bigoted. Others being guilted into spending more than they could afford, because that was what was expected. Others still who couldn’t even do that, their financial lack meaning they were pushed to the side, looking on as the whole season happened without them.

It was people like that he used to welcome into his shop at Christmas; people with nothing, people with nowhere else to go, people who were no longer welcome at the place they had once thought of as home. 

During Victoria’s reign he had played host on Christmas day to a charming group of street children, gifting them with new shoes and gloves, hot food and a warm fire. 

During the Second World War there had been the families recently left with nothing after a particularly effective bombing raid.

During the early nineties, it had been a group of young men, sick and weary, abandoned by families who feared the death sentence they carried in their blood.*

_*He had built up quite a relationship with the gay community over the years. It probably helped that they saw him as one of their own. For while his true form was without gender his physical body was decidedly male in appearance which meant to humans, who often struggled to consider anything outside of the binary they were familiar with, his unique blend of both masculine and feminine traits gave the allusion of similarity with others who were also less “traditional” in terms of gender or sexuality._

_Crowley, who was also without gender, was more flexible with his form, switching between male and female pronouns as he wished, presenting however he felt like at the time. Being essentially genderless, Aziraphale had no issue with any of Crowley’s presentation choices, as it wasn’t Crowley’s humanlike physical form that Aziraphale was in love with. He would, however, admit to being rather fond of it however Crowley chose to present it that day._

It was not his place to fix the ills of the world though, Head Office had been very clear about that. Consequences had to play out. His role had always been to encourage humans to things like love, kindness and generosity, but that didn’t mean that, on occasion, he couldn’t be the blessing himself. In the main though, he had found it best to help the humans to do their own good works. Organisations like food kitchens and shelters, hospitals and hospices, schools and charities could reach and help considerably more than he ever could as one entity, no matter how angelic.

Christmas, though, had been by far his busiest time of year for heaven, the list of miracles always long and involving. Now though, he was sort of retired, which meant he had to determine what his role should be for himself.

Or maybe it was just as simple as trying to figure out what Christmas really meant to him now.

*

“Crowley, dear,” he started one morning, “have you given any thought to what we should do about Christmas?”

“What about Christmas?” Crowley asked, somewhat taken back by the question. Partly because he had only just come in from the garden and partly because it was still September.

“Well, I’ve been giving it some consideration and I thought that since we’re amongst humans now, trying to live an essentially human-like life, that maybe we should make an effort this year. Join in the festivities, so to speak.”

“Okay. Sure,” Crowley said, because he was rarely against joining in any festivity that involved excessive drinking and terrible music. “But I thought you disliked Christmas.”

“Not _all_ of it,” Aziraphale said, a touch more defensively than he had been aiming for. “It’s just, it was always such a busy time of year. Lots of blessings. Lots of messages from Head Office. Lots of little miracles. It was exhausting. I’m sure you found the same thing.”

Crowley shrugged. Christmas of old had certainly been hard work, back when people had been more religious, and his Head Office had wanted him to spoil it as much as possible. Modern Christmas, on the other hand had been a breeze. Drunken Christmas parties that led to office affairs. Tick. Little whispers that it would be alright to steal from the charity fund. Tick. Do They Know It’s Christmas? stuck on a loop*. Tick. Tick. Tick.

_*Yes! Yes, they do know it’s Christmas! They have calendars. And no snow in Africa this Christmas time? Even if that was true – which would be a surprise to the African ski resorts and the mountain climbers of various snow-capped peaks – it was unlikely to snow in London at Christmas time either, but that’s never stopped a Londoner from knowing that it’s Christmas._

“And you know how I feel about, well, you know who.”

Which Crowley took to mean Gabriel, and not Lord Voldemort*.

_*Aziraphale had gotten rather upset during the early 2000s when religious groups had started burning Harry Potter books. Downstairs’ Head Office had been conflicted about whether the book burning was a good thing or not. Burning books was always good, but the books had been deemed occult by some, so burning them bad. But burning books also meant publicity, which meant that even more people now wanted to read them just to see what the fuss was about, which was good because apparently occult, but at the same time the books were also helping to inspire a generation to grow up to be better people and to fight injustice like greed and corruption, which was pretty much the basis of capitalism, so not so good._

_In the end it was agreed to be a draw. Crowley didn’t get a commendation, but since he hadn’t had anything to do with it, he also didn’t lose an important friendship over it. If there was one thing he had learnt over the many centuries, when it came to Aziraphale, fires that involved books, regardless of how good, bad or controversial the book, were a very bad thing indeed – see the Xianyang Palace, Ashurbanipal, Alexandria (x2), Constantinople (x2) and the Great Fire of London just to start with._

It was rather unfortunate that, of all the angels and archangels, it had been Gabriel who was given Christmas. It meant his name was forever linked with the season, much to Aziraphale’s discomfort.

“Sure, yes, good, fine,” Crowley said. “Here, present for you.”

Aziraphale blinked as Crowley emptied his laden arms onto the table.

“Is that-?”

“Lavender,” Crowley announced. “Thought you might like to do something with it. I’m chopping them all back, and they had better behave when they grow back, or else they will be in serious trouble.”

“Goodness,” Aziraphale said, because quite frankly he had already learnt the lesson about getting between Crowley and his plants.

“Seemed a waste to just chuck it,” Crowley continued, turning back to the door. “There’ll be more in a bit.”

It certainly did seem a waste to simply throw it away, especially given how wonderful it smelled.

“Very thoughtful of you, my dear,” Aziraphale said, distracted as he now was from his previous thoughts. “I’m sure I’ll be able to come up with just the thing.”

*

Just the thing turned out to be lavender pouches.

He got the idea from the Autumn Fete.

The Autumn Fete, held under the protective roof of the Village Hall, could be split into two main categories; food and crafts.

Food included the harvest donations for the local foodbank and the home grown produce competition, as well as various things for sale. Crafts including the flower arranging competition and an array of homemade items like cards, jewellery and soaps.

Then there were the extra special items which managed to combine the two.

It was Nancy - whose jams, curds and chutneys, along with her husband Ronald’s tomato relish, were one of the highlights of the fete - who was the most helpful in offering suggestions. And while Aziraphale felt that lavender salve, soap, or exfoliating scrubs were beyond him at this stage, little pouches of dried lavender sounded like just the thing.*

_*As did several of the jams and a bottle or three of chutney, which would go so well with various cheeses. Crowley, in contrast, picked up a couple of bottles of homemade cider, and one of sloe gin, all of which, it turned out, went rather well with the cheeses too._

So Aziraphale happily spent his time drying the lavender and sorting it into little pouches that he had managed to source from the internet (with a little help from Crowley). And since he was not aware that autumn was not the best time of year to harvest the lavender, the lavender had no reason to be anything other than perfect, and so the pouches turned out rather marvellously, and very intensely fragranced. 

Then Crowley picked one up.

“Angel, have you _blessed_ them?” he asked, eyebrows raised above his sunglasses.

“Only a little,” Aziraphale admitted, wringing his hands together. “Only _minor_ blessings. Health. Contentment. Peace of mind.”

“Finder of lost things?” Crowley said archly.

“Things go missing so easily these days,” Aziraphale said primly. “People are always complaining about mislaying house keys and car keys and all sorts of other things that aren’t keys at all. It seemed fitting.”

“And nothing to do with Saint _Anthony_ ,” Crowley continued. “Recoverer of lost objects.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said as a touch of colour sprung to his cheeks, “it is possible I took certain inspiration for that one from somewhere else. You don’t think it’s too much, do you? I thought about giving them away, as Christmas gifts, and I know I’m not exactly on the clock anymore, but we’ve met some such lovely people that I thought a couple of very minor blessings couldn’t hurt, and they have been so nice. I just wanted to give something back.”

Crowley looked down at the little pouches that had been separated into small groups, his fingers still tingling from the one he had picked up.

“I’m sure they will be _elated_ ,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale elected to take Crowley’s words at face value, and so continued with his making and blessing until there was no more lavender and he was forced to find a new occupation for his time. Christmas would, after all, be upon them soon enough.

Except, before Christmas there was Allhallowtide*.

_*“No one calls it that any more, angel.”_

If Aziraphale had a complicated relationship with Christmas, then he had an equally but differently complicated one with the three-day festival that was kicked off by All Hallows’ Eve, or what was now commonly referred to as Halloween.

Absorbed from Samhain but pitched as a Christian festival, it had originally been one of Aziraphale’s favourites, being that it combined celebrating the end of the harvest with prayers and remembrance for the newly departed. He had always found something special in a community coming together in joined celebration, sharing the fruits of their labour, and remembering those dear to them but no longer there in the flesh.

And if he had been the first to encourage the giving and receiving of little cakes in exchange for prayers, well then, all the better. That had been one commendation honestly earnt.*

_*And the corruption of the soul cake practice into modern day trick or treating had earnt Crowley a similar commendation, although he maintained that he had had nothing to do with it. He personally blamed the Americans and Aziraphale didn’t think he was far wrong._

Modern Allhallowtide, however, was distressingly different from the earlier forms. Harvest had become its own separate celebration, while the traditional bonfire was now kept for Guy Fawkes* night. The religious observance of All Saints’ Day and All Soul’s Day was in serious decline, and the increasingly secular observance of Halloween had all but swallowed up All Saint’s Eve.

_*God rest his soul._

For the most part, Aziraphale had continued to observe the Principal Feast of All Saint’s Day* but had forgone the rest.

_*The Anglican version, as that was the dominant church for where he lived._

Crowley, in contrast, _loved_ modern day Halloween. He loved the scares and the dressing up, the decorations and the partying. He loved the concept of trick or treating. He loved the thrills and the spookiness.

He wasn’t too sure where the whole, newer “sexy” Halloween thing had come from, but hey, that was humans for you, always taking something and somehow adding sex to it.*

_*This too he blamed on the Americans. And, of course, the Romans before them. They’d added sex to a whole load of things._

While Aziraphale had spent the past few decades fretting about humans possibly bringing themselves to harm dabbling with occult powers, Crowley had been having fun.

“It’s harmless,” Crowley had declared back when they had both been charged with helping to decorate the Dowling’s residence. “Well… mostly,” Crowley had added, propping up the reasonably realistic looking skeleton and waving one of the arms. 

“But initially the point was to dress up to scare _away_ the demons,” Aziraphale had protested. “Not have a night where you all but invite them around to partake in nibbles and merriment.”

The fact that over the years he regularly invited his own demon around for nibbles and merriment had only been partially lost on him. That was different, after all. While Crowley was with him, he wasn’t partaking in nibbles and merriment while tempting some unsuspecting human. As an angel, it had been Aziraphale’s moral duty to thwart that sort of behaviour whenever he could.

That said, now that he was happily cohabiting in rural content with his one particular demon, the last thing he wanted was to attract some unwanted attention from other demonic forces. 

“Not sure my lot – former lot – really care much about Halloween anymore,” Crowley said when Aziraphale brought it up. “Never really appreciated the potential of it anyway.”

Which left Aziraphale in a bit of a conundrum. It would be nice to do something for All Hallows’ Eve, since he missed the community spirit it used to bring, and they were now part of a new community. Crowley would also enjoy the spooky, silly aspect of it as well. And it was important to care about your partner’s interests.

But at the same time, it would be bad to draw undue attention from either of their former sides. Worse would be to do something, or not do something, that would draw the ire of their new neighbours. 

There were protocols about this sort of thing, especially in villages such as this one. Do too much and you risk upstaging the neighbours, a horribly British crime that could be held against you for many years to come. Do too little and you could be accused of not keeping with the community spirit, another terribly British crime that held the same result. 

Then there was the fact he was an upstanding member of the local church, and the Church itself – both big “C” and small “c” – had _opinions_ about Halloween.

“Relax,” Crowley had said, coming in with a new bowl of apples. “Just ask around and then do whatever the neighbours do, but in our own way. Simple.”

Since that was a smashing idea, that was exactly what they did. 

Their way.

So, the evening of the last day of October saw an angel and a demon handing out sweets, toffee apples, and homemade soul cakes to delighted children from the village.

They had decided to keep the decoration simple for their first year. Enough to show they had made an effort, not too much as to offend anyone’s sensibilities*.

_*With the possible except of Mrs. Hazelton, who was always prepared to be offended._

Two carved pumpkins showed they were open for young visitors, although the stuffed snake wrapped around Crowley’s one was deemed more cute than scary. The skeleton by the front door was scarier if the number of surprised screams when it suddenly moved were anything to go by. 

The highlight, however, was the effort Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley had obviously put into their outfits. 

With wings* and a halo, everyone agreed that Mr. Fell was resplendent in his toga-like long white robe, the gold face paints adding a strange unworldliness to his angel costume. 

_*Not his real ones, that really would have attracted the attention of upstairs._

Mr. Crowley, on the other hand, had simply gone for adding demon horns and a tail to his usual dark clothing, one of his gardening pitch forks propped by the door. But, rumour had it, if you asked nicely enough*, he’d pull his sunglasses down to reveal the most amazing contact lenses. 

_*Or rudely enough_

Yes, everyone agreed that the new neighbours had done well, even if no one had had any idea what a soul cake was. 

Halloween was deemed a success.

*

Of course, being the time of year that it was, the celebrations did not stop there, and just two days later, it was off to the school playing field for soup, Parkin Cake*, and the village fireworks display.

_*Oatmeal and black treacle gingerbread cake_

“Do you ever think it strange,” Aziraphale said, as they watched the children twirling their sparklers, “that they celebrate something that failed to happen by enacting what should have happened?”

“Humans,” Crowley said with a grin. “They do love a good contradiction.” 

The firework display was lovely, the tomato soup was lovely, the Parkin Cake* was particularly lovely. 

_*Specially made by Hayley, the village go-to person for desserts_

It was by silent and yet mutual consent that they did not linger by the big bonfire.

There was still plenty to do and see though, and there was something nice about being able to wander around, greeting their new friends, and watching the children laugh and have fun. There was nothing and no one to stop them from holding hands, or even slipping an arm around the other one’s waist. 

And if they had watched the firework display itself with Crowley’s arms wrapped around Aziraphale from behind, while Aziraphale savoured the close contact and the last of his Parkin Cake, then that really was just between them.


	2. Jo (1st-15th of December)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that Aziraphale isn’t the only one who has a complicated relationship with Christmas.
> 
> For an Anglican vicar, Christmas is the busiest time of year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s note: Having thrown the question out on twitter and generally getting confusion and raised eyebrows back, I believe an explanation is owed: what on earth is a _Christingle_?
> 
> At an attempt at simplicity, a Christingle is a symbolic object representing ‘Christ’s light’. Most commonly it is an orange with a candle shoved in the centre, a red ribbon around the orange with four cocktail sticks holding fruit and nuts or sweets pierced into the orange.
> 
> The orange represents the world, the ribbon symbolises Christ’s love and blood, the lit candle represents the light of the world, the four sticks symbolise either the four points of a compass or the four seasons, and the fruit or sweets represent all of God’s creations.
> 
> A Christingle Service is one which involves Christingles, which means trusting children with an orange, a lit candle and sweets on a stick. Other things generally include prayers, readings and carols.

_The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger,_  
_In all our trials born to be our friend;_

_He knows our needs, To our weakness no stranger!_  
_Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!_  
_Behold your King! your King! before him bend!_

_O Holy Night - John Sullivan Dwight's version_

*

Jo hated Christmas.

Okay, well, yes, hate was a rather strong word. Let’s try again.

Jo _despised_ Christmas.

Although, to be fair to Jo, it wasn’t _Christmas_ Christmas that she despised. She had no dislike for the birth of the person whose life, death and resurrection had given her hope, peace, and a profession. It was just, _you know_ , everything that came with it.

Food, families, anxiety over the buying and giving of presents, the endless social events, more food, more family. Cards, decorations, forced jollity. Seeing people you haven’t seen for at least a year, and suddenly remembering why you didn’t meet more often. More family. More stress. Santa Claus, sleighbells, Noddy Holder endlessly wishing everyone a Merry Christmas whether they liked it or not.

And that was before you brought _religion_ into it. 

If she had oscillated between liking it and tolerating it as a child, becoming a vicar had certainly pushed it more firmly into the dislike side, especially since coming to Little Aven. 

It was just so _much_. A seemingly endless calendar of events, services, and special occasions, and no matter what you did, how early you started preparing for it, it still somehow managed to creep up on you and smack you round the head when you weren’t looking. 

Harvest, Michaelmas, Halloween, Guy Fawkes, Remembrance Day, a very brief breather, and then BANG, your old friend, Advent, is at the door. At which point everything hits overdrive. 

Advent, the time period where two normal services on a Sunday* just isn’t enough. Oh no, we’re going to have to add in more, at least one more every Sunday, and even more during the week. And those _normal_ Sunday services, they’re not going to stay normal, are they? Of course not, not during _Advent_. 

_*The 9:30am traditional Holy Communion, followed by the mad dash down country backroads to make it back to Little Aven and St. Michael’s for the 11am slightly less traditional, slightly more inclusive, Parish Communion._

No, Advent was that period which insisted more was better, and everything, duplicated, was best. 

Which meant that on top of the usual two services, she faced, over the span of four short weeks, the addition of… one Christingle Service, two Christmas Fetes*, and three Carol Services, all of which were just the appetiser for the four additional Christmas services which starting at 5pm Christmas Eve with the children’s Crib Service, and then rapidly went through Midnight Communion and 8am Communion, before culminating with the 10am Family Communion which finished somewhere around eleven fifteen Christmas morning.

_*Neither of which were in Little Aven, and neither of which she was on the organising committees for, thank God (quite literally)._

After that, it was a really good thing the last service was at St. Michael’s and that she lived so close to the church, because by the time she got home all she was good for was face planting onto her bed and ignoring the world for a few hours.

Or days.

Days was good.

Even better when she was able to lose herself in whatever computer game she had treated herself to that year.

So no, overall, Christmas was not Jo’s favourite time of year. 

She hated shopping. She hated planning. She hated the anxiety around possibly getting something wrong. And everyone had such firm views about what was right and wrong when it came to Christmas.

Had she written cards to everyone she was supposed to? Had she remembered to send them on time, especially the ones to go abroad? Had she updated her address book, or was that one of the many things she still hadn’t managed to do since last year?

How old were her nieces and nephews now? What were they into? Was it a cop out to just send money and let their parents sort it out?

What about her congregants? Were they all sorted for Christmas day and dinner? Did they all have somewhere to go? 

Thank goodness her newest congregant was one half of a couple. No doubt they would have their own plans, although she probably should check just in case.

Then there were all the services. Were there scheduling issues? Had she forgotten a service? Was there going to be another fight over which church got to host the midnight Christmas communion service*, as there had been during her first year?

_*St. Peter, Great Bleadon, this year_

What about carols? Had she included enough variety while still repeating the old favourites enough to satisfy most people? Did she really have to include the rather dreary _The Angel Gabriel From Heaven Came_ every year*?

_*The answer was yes. Yes, she did. Not just because it was a hymn that featured angels and the Angel Gabriel specifically, but also because Mrs. Hazelton’s first name just so happened to be Gloria, which was repeated throughout the carol, and therefore she had particularly strong opinions about it_

Christmas might be merry for some people, but for Jo it was an overwhelming mess. The sooner it was over, the better. 

*

**Sunday 1st December**  
**The First Sunday in Advent**

_The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light – Isaiah 9.v2_

*

“Please come and join us tonight for our family Christingle and Carol Service at St. James, Almsdean, 6pm. Everyone is welcome. Light refreshments will follow.”

Provided no one accidentally set anyone or anything on fire.

As someone who hadn’t grown up with Christingles or Christingle services, it still seemed strange to Jo that people would willingly trust children* with a lit candle stuck in an orange surrounded by sweets and a ribbon. It was literally a disaster waiting to happen.

_*And certain adults_

It was, however, also a tradition, and so it would continue until someone stronger than her put a stop to it*. 

_*Or someone or something was actually set on fire for more than a few seconds (she occasionally wished Maisie’s mother hadn’t been quite so quick)._

Strangely though, it was, in its way, one of the more enjoyable Christmas services she had to put together. The children, suddenly given fire and sweets, were easily excitable and provided you didn’t mind being upstaged by a six-year-old high on sugar, it could almost be described as fun. Even the music was livelier, helped by the liberal distribution of bells and shakers to the younger* attendees. And families from the surrounding villages would come out for the event, even if they weren’t regular church goers themselves. 

_*And young at heart_

As things went, there were worse ways to kick off Advent.

“Aziraphale, will we be seeing you tonight for some carols and candles in oranges?” 

Service over, she made a beeline to her newest congregant before she could be accosted by anyone else*.

_*i.e Mrs. Hazleton_

It had been a few weeks since she had last been able to speak to him. He didn’t attend every week, although she could not discern any particular pattern to his attendance, but it was always nice to see him when he was there. She also wanted to make a point of inviting him personally to that evening’s service. He did, after all, seem rather fond of children, so he might enjoy the attempt at youthful merriment, although she was aware that as a middle-aged man in a same sex relationship, he may have reservations about attending a children-friendly service somewhere he was not already known.

“I’m afraid not, my dear,” he said, his expression apologetic as if he was personally letting her down. “I don’t drive, you see, and it would be unfair of me to ask poor Crowley to drive me there on such short notice only for him to then sit outside during the proceedings.”

While she could understand about the whole driving thing, particularly as Crowley appeared to have some sort of issue with the church, it was a surprise to her that even at Christmas he would feel the need to sit outside rather than come into the warm. It might not be a particularly big church, but even for this sort of service it wasn’t going to be filled. There would be plenty of room near the back, hidden away.

Did he hate church that much that he wouldn’t even step foot in one, she wondered, and if so who or what had hurt him so badly? 

It was perplexing as he clearly had no issue with Christians themselves, since he was surprisingly tolerant, if not actively supportive, of his partner’s faith and involvement. She had seen many times what could happen if one half of a couple was not a believer, and the resentments that could grow due to it. Crowley had none of that. In fact, he actively encouraged Aziraphale in his participation, despite the time and effort it took up. 

He also seemed to have no particular issue with people of faith, or people who worked for the church, such as herself. In fact, she though they were getting along rather well, so it wasn’t that either.

There was something else then, something she was missing.

“You know Crowley would be most welcome as well,” she offered gently. 

After all, Crowley too seem to be fond of children, and carols were a traditional part of a British Christmas. You didn’t necessarily need to believe in the meaning of them to enjoy them. 

“It’s quite an informal service,” she continued, “and he wouldn’t be forced to join in on anything he might feel uncomfortable with.”

“Oh, that is most kind of you,” Aziraphale said, “but I couldn’t ask that of him. He has his reasons, you see, and I quite respect them.”

Which meant Jo would respect them too.

She gave a small smile and a nod. “I understand. In that case,” she offered, “how about our Carol Service here instead then. Sunday the 22nd, 7pm, if you’re around. A little more traditional than tonight’s*, but much easier to get to. It’s also a bit of a village tradition you might say. A lot of the families turn up for it.”

_*No burning oranges for one_

That, for once, wasn’t an exaggeration. Of all the services held at St. Michael’s, the Carol Service and the Christmas Eve Crib Service were two of the best attended. Even if people never stepped foot into the church at any other time of the year, for some reason, probably nostalgia linked, they came out for one or both of those.

“That does sound delightful,” Aziraphale said, and he actually did sound enthused by it. “It has been some time since I’ve been to a good carol service.”

“And if you have a favourite carol you would like included, let me know and I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

“Oh, I most certainly will,” he said.

She let him go after that. He obviously had his partner waiting for him, and she had other people desperate to speak to her*.

_*Mrs. Hazelton was looking particularly impatient._

She made a mental note to get back to him about his favourite carol. 

And to ask him what plans they had for Christmas.

*

**Sunday 15th December**  
**The Third Sunday in Advent**

_Out of the depth I cry to you, LORD; Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy – Psalm 130 v1-2_

*

Ten days and eight services to go. Over half way in terms of time, only just half way in terms of services.

The good news was that nothing had been set on fire during the Christingles Service, they’d had enough oranges and sweets to go around, and they’d managed to raise some money for The Children’s Society, which was the purpose of the whole thing in the first place.

The bad news was that she was already exhausted and had managed to pick up a cold from somewhere. It probably didn’t help that the church wasn’t the best heated, and she did hate not being warm. 

The headache wasn’t exactly helping either. Or the blocked sinuses. It was all making her rather fuzzy headed.

What was she doing again?

Oh, yes, the morning service was done and she was going home to grab something to eat and check over her notes before she headed out again for the evening service.

So much for Sunday being a day of rest.

She should also probably grab a painkiller or two. Or down a Lemsip or two. On second thoughts, should probably try not to overdose on paracetamol. That wouldn’t be good. So maybe just one Lemsip and some ibuprofen instead. Or Aspirin? Or …

Wait, what was she doing again? Something about the carol service that evening at St. Mary, Longblade. Or was it, Holy Trinity, Mancanton? Or was it Holy Trinity, Longblade?

“Oh, my dear, you do look quite terrible,” a voice said as she closed the church door behind her.

That was more than possible, but pride and British reserve had her waving the comment away and responding with an almost convincing, “I’m fine.”

Maybe it was St. Mary, Mancanton?

“And _you_ are a terrible liar,” said a second voice with a touch of amusement.

Wait, what? 

Blinking, she turned to find Crowley grinning at her while Aziraphale looked on in concern. Then her brain finally processed what had been said and by whom.

Where Aziraphale was probably quite right with the original statement, there was a good chance she did in fact look quite terrible, Crowley had also been completely right. She was a terrible liar. Always had been in fact. So, it was a good thing her job didn’t really see need for it.

Most of the time at least. 

“I’ll _be_ fine,” she offered as an alternative. “Just need to go home and grab some painkillers and food and you know.”

Although she wasn’t sure what food. Hopefully she still had something in her fridge or freezer she could just shove into the microwave to heat up. And at some point, she was going to actually have to think about Christmas and what she was going to do about that with regards to food.

Food was good.

Oh, and there had been something she had been meaning to talk to Aziraphale about. Something about Christmas.

Well, yes, she mentally berated herself, of course it was about Christmas. Everything right now was about Christmas.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” she started helpfully vaguely. “I wanted to ask you something. About the main Carol Service,” she added. “The one next week. Here, next week. Oh yes, I remember, I was rather hoping you might agree to do one of the readings for me if you were still planning on attending.”

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale said. “I’m sure I would be delighted to. But might I suggest we have this discussion somewhere warmer and dryer.”

Yes, that was probably a good idea. 

“It just so happens that Crowley and I are having a most lovely chicken stew for lunch today,” he continued.

“Are we? News to me,” she thought she heard Crowley say.

“We are,” Aziraphale continued, shooting his partner some sort of look that would probably make more sense if she was feeling her usual self.

“Well we certainly are _now_ ,” Crowley said with an odd wave of his hand.

“And we would be most delighted if you would join us,” Aziraphale said most kindly with a lovely smile. “I’m sure we can discuss whatever it is you wanted to ask me over dinner and a hot drink. How does that sound?”

It actually sounded rather marvellous and she told him so.

“Tip-top,” Aziraphale said. “Now, I hope you don’t mind the short walk, but my umbrella here should keep us mostly dry.”

Somehow, almost miraculously, the umbrella did manage to keep all three of them dry, and before she knew it, they were back at Eden Cottage, being greeted by the mouth-watering smell of fresh bread and chicken stew, which she could smell despite not being able to smell a great deal at all.

“Now you just take your coat and shoes off, put your things down and relax yourself here,” Aziraphale was saying. “We’ll check on the food and how about a hot drink? Something to sort out that head and throat of yours.”

That actually sounded really nice, and it didn’t seem all that long before he was back carrying a mug of something that smelt somewhat familiar. 

“Hot lemon, ginger and honey,” he said, carefully handing her the mug. “With a dash of garlic and a squeeze of lime. Just the thing for a head cold.”

It did sound like just the thing, mainly because it was remarkably similar to the cold cure her grandma used to make, which in turn unexpectedly made her eyes prickle. 

That was the other problem with Christmas see; family. Or in her case, the lack of it. 

On the surface she was blessed with a large and generally noisy family – her parents, two siblings, their partners, their various children, her aunts, uncles, cousins by the dozen and their partners and their children – but somehow she’d become detached from them all.

She had never been particularly close to her father’s family – to be honest, her father wasn’t particularly close to his family either – but the closeness they’d had with her mother’s family had frayed after the death of her grandmother. 

Grandma Morgan had been the real matriarch of their motley crew and once she’d gone the ties holding them all together had swiftly unravelled. No more big family parties, no more piling into the big house for Christmas gatherings, no more just dropping in to see who was around. Grandma was gone, the house was sold, and everyone had scattered to their own respective hearths.

She still kept in touch with a couple of her aunts and uncles and a few of her cousins but the physical distance between them, and her choice of profession, had begun to make themselves felt.

As for her own family unit, both her brother and her sister had their own partners and children now, and since her parents had decided they’d rather spend their retirement living it up in the warmth of Jamaica, she had found herself somewhat alone. 

Yes, she had an open invitation to spend Christmas at her sister’s, but with her job as it was and where it was, it wasn’t all that easy. And anyway, at heart she didn’t want to intrude. 

Even if that meant spending what little of Christmas she had to herself by herself.

“Oh, my dear, is something the matter?”

Blinking, she looked up to find Aziraphale hovering near her, face creased with concern. 

“Oh, no,” she said quickly. “I’m fine, just you know, a bit cold-y.”

He looked doubtful. She was, as had already been pointed out, not the best liar. Mercifully he let it go.

“Well you just get that down you and you’ll be right as rain in no time,” he said cheerfully. “And dinner will be ready in just a jiffy, so you just relax. That’s right.”

There was something incredibly soothing about his voice that had her want to do exactly what he said. And she must have done because the next thing she knew she had finished her drink, her head was starting to clear, and dinner was on the table.

The stew was truly delicious. Warm, filling and very tasty, there was something familiar about it, but at the same time not familiar, as if there was a secret ingredient that she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“Old family recipe,” Aziraphale confirmed, when she asked. “Rather secret I’m afraid.”

Crowley merely grinned and poured her a glass of wine to go with it. She honestly meant to say no to the alcohol, but there was something so persuasive about him that she found herself giving in with very little effort at all.

It would only be the one glass though. Her working day wasn’t over, after all.

It was mostly small talk over the food, which was good, because honestly it would have taken far too much effort for more than that. 

Aziraphale, bless him, did most of the talking, regaling them with an amusing tale about some sort of chicken stew he had had somewhere – Monaco, Morocco, Mosul, she couldn’t remember – which may or may not have contained any actual chicken from what she could make out. It certainly had Crowley laughing, and it was nice to see how well they interacted with each other. 

Even if she did have to be rather firm about not having any more wine.

“Now, I do believe you wanted to ask me to do a reading for you,” Aziraphale said, once dinner was over and they were once again settled in the sitting room.

“I did,” she said. “I do. For the Carol Service next week. I hope you’re still planning to attend.”

“Oh, of course, my dear,” he said. “I’m rather looking forward to it actually. I do enjoy a good carol!”

His enthusiasm was so infectious that her answering smile was completely genuine. 

“Which passage would you like me to read?” he asked.

That was a very good question and was something she had pondered while assigning the readings. He was obviously well educated and also well versed in the Bible, so she had pondered giving him one of the Old Testament readings. Isaiah 9 or 11, for instance, both of which were mostly prophecies written in verse. As a poetry and literature lover, he could no doubt do justice to rhythm and musicality of those, but at the same time he was still the newcomer and this was his first Christmas in Little Aven. It would not do to scare him off. And also, should he decline, she would need an easy reading to offer to a replacement.

No, in the end she decided to play it safe and had gone for one of the substantial but straightforward readings. 

And if she had smiled slightly at her choice, that was for her and her alone.

“The Gospel of Luke,” she said. “The second half of chapter two. Verses eight to twenty.”

He nodded and jotted it down on 

“Luke chapter two, eight to twenty,” he repeated. “Any particular translation?”

For a brief moment she envisioned him doing it in the original Greek and she wondered what that would sound like. She had only just about scraped through Greek while she had been training, but for some reason Aziraphale struck her as the sort of person who might be well versed in various classical languages. 

“One of the New Internationals, please,” she said instead. “If you could.”

“Of course,” he nodded, adding to his note. 

“I’ll dropped round the order of service later this week so you know when your turn is,” she continued. Of course, that meant actually writing the order of service. Normally she would have emailed it, except she wasn’t sure that Aziraphale was the emailing type. 

“That would be wonderful,” he said. “I must say, I am actually starting to look forward to Christmas this year. It hasn’t always been my most favourite time of year, but Crowley and I are determined to give it a proper go this year, aren’t we, Crowley dear.”

“Yup,” Crowley said from where he was sprawled across one of the armchairs. 

Jo was a little surprised to hear that Aziraphale hadn’t always enjoyed Christmas. She had pegged him to be the sort of person who loved it, what with the food and the general joviality of the season. 

Mind you, people could have all sorts of reasons for not enjoying Christmas or the Christmas season. Just look at her, for instance. Perhaps part of Aziraphale’s issues stemmed from his religious family and upbringing. 

It was, however, a good opportunity to ask them about their Christmas plans. 

“Oh, we’ll be staying here,” Aziraphale confirmed. “First Christmas together in our new home and all of that. No where better. We’ve ordered some new decorations, and Crowley has kindly offered to sort out the food. We’re having sushi.”

Sushi? Well, that was different from the usual turkey roast.

“Buying it or making it yourself?” she asked Crowley.

He gave a lazy grin. “Professional chef,” he said. “Special delivery.”

She blinked in surprise, quickly looking at Aziraphale to confirm what Crowley was saying, then back to Crowley. Despite everything, she got the sense that Crowley wasn’t lying. 

“You’re getting a professional to prepare sushi for you on Christmas Day?” she asked, more amused than anything.

His grin widened. “I’m very persuasive.”

I bet, she thought. Know the right people, offer enough money, and pretty much anything was possible. 

“What about you, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. “How are you spending Christmas?”

“Here,” she said. “Services all morning, after all,” she added. 

“And after the services?”

“Going home,” she admitted. “I’ve had offers for dinner,” she added quickly, to stop them from getting the wrong idea. It was one of the consequences of being a single vicar, being invited somewhere for Christmas dinner. There was always someone amongst the congregation who felt it their calling to look out for the widows and misfits. The problem was, Jo didn’t really like to think of herself as a ‘misfit’.

“But I’m usually so exhausted I’m not good company, I’m afraid,” she finished. 

She was surprised when Aziraphale gave her a look as if he completely understood what she meant. 

“Well,” he said, “it just so happens that we were hoping you might like to join us-”

Uh-oh.

“-for a, what should I call it … yes, a Christmas soiree. Nothing big or fancy, just a handful of people in the evening. Drinks, snacks, and general merriment. That sort of thing.”

They were inviting her round for drinks and nibbles on Christmas Day evening? Well, that was different.

“Of course you’re free to decline,” Aziraphale continued. “The last thing you might want after such a busy time is force yourself to be social with little old us, but the offer is there.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Nothing to do with kindness,” Crowley said. “Good old-fashioned gluttony with a dash of sloth.”

“No need to confirm now,” Aziraphale continued. “You can see how you feel on the day, but the invitation will remain open.”

She thanked them again but did not confirm either way. It was certainly very nice of them to invite her but, she suspected, the lure of pyjamas and the Call the Midwife Christmas Special would be hard to beat.

Invitation offered, the conversation shifted again, but it wasn’t long before Jo felt she had to go. She still had to get home and sort out a few things for the evening after all.

“Thank you,” she said as she gathered her coat and bags. “The stew was delicious and the lemon drink really was just the thing. I’m feeling so much better.”

She was feeling remarkably better, in fact. Her head was clearer, her headache was gone and she felt more awake and alert than she had in days. 

Huh, she thought, as she finally bid them goodbye, maybe there was something in the old remedies after all. 

It was either that or some sort of miracle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC with Aziraphale in part 3 (but can't promise when because November wasn't the best month for many reasons, and December is December...)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 to be continued with Vicar Jo and the start of actual Christmas


End file.
